


Impulsivity, Indecision

by rhombus



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Extended Scene, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhombus/pseuds/rhombus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Linda sees what Martin doesn't, and may end up being the biggest shipper of them all. Takes place during and after S03E03: Newcastle; S03E04: Ottery St. Mary; S03E05: Rotterdam; and S03E06: St. Petersburg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Newcastle

**Author's Note:**

> My first CP fic. Probably full of errors and accidental Americanisms. Apologies in advance. (I tried, but Wikipedia's entry on BrE vs AmE can only do so much.) Despite that, I hope you like it, and that it's passably CP-ish. :)

** Impulsivity, Indecision **  
  
Part 1

  
_\--- Newcastle ---_  
  
  
 _Ask a girl out, get rejected. Lah-dee-bloody-dah._  
  
"Maybe I _ should _give you my CV now." Martin meant it, in all seriousness, though his mortification had turned it somehow into a laugh.  
  
"There you are. See, you're funny," Linda said with a smile. "I had a feeling you would be if you just relaxed."  
  
Martin felt a streak of boldness shoot through him. "So, might you after all—?"  
  
"No." It had only been a very faint streak, really, and it faded away again without fuss. "I think you relaxed _ because  _I said no. And I think you're  probably right about that."  
  
 _Right about that..._  
  
It circled his head in a confused loop, unwilling to come in for a landing.  
  
Right about that. Right about that?  
  
Wait. What?  
  
"What—what do you mean? Right about what? What?"  
  
 _What!?_  
  
Linda had turned to walk away, but stopped and slowly swivelled on a foot. "Oh, Martin."  
  
Nothing good ever came after that simple utterance. Martin swallowed the thick bean that had planted itself in his throat.  
  
"You do know you don't really want to go out with me, right?" she said, not unkindly. Sympathetically even.  
  
Martin felt his cheeks burn red with confusion. That was women all over, always speaking in riddles! How any man understood them, he'd never know!  
  
"Of—of course I do! Or, well, I _ did_. Not that I like you any less! I just mean, I wouldn't want to date anyone who wasn't willing. No, that didn't come out right. I just mean, I would never _ force_—Nope. Much worse. What I  mean to say is..." What exactly was it he meant to say? Other than  _Oh God I'm so embarrassed right now don't mind me I'm just going to dig a hole and hide in it until I die and birds pick away at me_.  
  
"Martin..." Sympathy was very quickly slipping the slide whistle down to pity.   
  
"I only mean—" he broke in, desperate to put an end to this whole conversation. "You're a beautiful girl—no. Woman. A very beautiful  woman—" Not exactly true, but she had her good qualities, as all women rightly did. "Any man—or, or, or woman!—would probably, more than probably, really, want to—to date you. And, well, you've got, got, your brogue, and all... as well..." he finished lamely. If ever there was a bigger git than Captain Martin Crieff...  
  
"My _ brogue_?" Linda's eyebrows shot up her dainty little forehead. But there was the tiny creep of a smile on her lips, as if unexpectedly charmed. "Martin, you really are spectac—" A dart of excited air shot through his lungs... "—ularly bad at this, aren't you?"  
  
A meek acquiescence: "Yes."  
  
"You don't want to take me out. Well, you do, I should say, but not for the right reasons."  
  
Riddles again!  Women!  
  
"I—"  
  
Linda tapped a finger against her chin and looked meditatively upwards. "How to put this delicately. Let's just say I'm not exactly the First Officer on this aircraft you  really want."  
  
"I—" Martin forgot how to form other sounds. "I—" Flippety-flappety flounder mouth. "I—"  
  
But there were only the two passengers, Linda and Herc. And only one of them was a First Officer. And—more importantly—a woman.  
  
"Think about it for a while, Martin." She gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Let it settle in. You'll be so much more relaxed and happy when you do." And then, inexplicably, for reasons _ completely _unable to be explicked, she cast a significant glance at Douglas's empty co-pilot's seat.  
  
There was a small noise of shock. But only a very small one. And it wasn't undignified. Not in the least. It was under  not a single circumstance a squeak. And Martin wouldn't in good conscience be able to say for certain who or where it came from anyhow.  
  
"I would say I wish you both all happinesses," Linda said, "but I've only known you for about two hours, and that seems a bit presumptuous."  
  
"A bit!" She took caution when presuming happiness, but hid no hesitations when she presumed... when she presumed what she presumed! Whatever on Earth  _that_ was. Martin cast a baleful glance at Douglas's chair.  
  
"I—You—I—You... you don't mean—You couldn't, of course, because that would mean—that would mean—No, of course not. Absolutely not. No."  
  
He looked up from the chair to find that Linda had already gone.  
  
"But—"  
  
Oh, _ sodding  _Christ.  
  
He could hear the faint rumble of Douglas's familiar voice, somewhere else, away somewhere, oh Martin didn't know where, nor did he care! Nope. Not a single, solitary whit. There wasn't a whit to be cared for on his entire person. He was entirely whit-less.  
 _  
Truer words, Captain_ _..._  
  
Oh, Douglas _ would _pop into his head right at the exact moment he didn't want him there. Which was never. Or always. Whichever one grammatically meant he didn't want Douglas tromping around in his subconscious making comfy little nests to settle down into. Whichever one meant that. That was what he wanted. Or didn't want.  Blast!  
  
It certainly wasn't... he didn't. Linda was entirely, and without question, wrong. With a capital wrong.  
  
He didn't want _ Douglas_, of all people.  
  
Really, Douglas was just so arrogant, conceited, selfish, underhanded, disrespectful...  
  
 _And a man!_  
  
Oh yes. And that too. That first of all. Before all the rest.  
  
He slowly made his way out of the flight deck, ruminating on... well. Everything, really. Linda and the rude engineer in Birmingham and Herc's bribe and Douglas and nope _ not _Douglas at all no certainly not  _stop it stop it stop it_.  
  
He was so absorbed in not-thinking about Douglas he hadn't realised he'd stumbled into the back end of a conversation.  
  
"...move to a slightly bigger airline. With aeroplanes in the _plural_. I mean, even Caledonian mightn't be a bad—"  
  
Douglas.  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't do that."  
  
And Herc.  
  
Douglas and Herc discussing... Douglas going to Caledonian? Martin felt his mouth dry up like the Sahara and his stomach drop from an aeroplane without a parachute. He wouldn't... he couldn't... Why would he want to leave MJN?  
  
 _You were planning the very same not ten minute ago, idiot._  
  
Yes, but not  really. He knew he'd never get the job. It was MJN or nothing for Captain Martin Crieff. His heart suddenly took like an anchor and sank.  _No other choice._ He'd never thought on it before, but it must've been the same for Douglas, otherwise he'd have left ages ago. Of course he'd have done. But... But... they had a pretty good working relationship, hadn't they? It wasn't... he wouldn't leave because of _Martin_ , would he? Douglas got on with him. He might've hid it underneath layers of insolence and merciless teasing, but Martin knew from bad blood, and it certainly wasn't _ that _between them.  
  
"But, if, hypothetically I were to ask—?" Oh, they were still talking.  
  
"Ah, but you wouldn't ask, would you?"  
  
"No," Douglas sighed, sounding like a impertinent child. "As you say, I'm...  very  happy where I am."  
 _  
Sound more like it, please, would you, Douglas?_  
  
Martin tried to cast off his sudden gloominess. Why did he care? He didn't care. Douglas could do as he pleased. And if that meant leaving MJN, so be it. It wouldn't bother Martin in the least...   
  
He was leaning a shoulder against the cabin wall, arms crossed over his chest, deep in thought, when Douglas took notice of him.  
  
"Ah... Martin." His tone was bathing in feigned nonchalance. Bubble-bathing, in fact, with a glass of pinot noir. "I didn't see you there."  
  
"I wasn't there," he lied. "That is, not until now, just right this... now."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
Douglas's uniform jacket had been deposited over one of the passenger seats, jauntily haphazard and carelessly elegant, like the rest of him, of course. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing forearms that were slightly tanned and covered in an appealing patina of dark, soft-looking hair.  
  
Martin cleared his throat. "So, uh..."  
  
"I'll be on my merry way then," Douglas said at the same moment Martin spit out:  
  
"Any plans for this evening?"  
  
"Why Martin," Douglas replied, all silk, around a smirk. "Is that a solicitation?"  
  
Martin congratulated himself for barely colouring. "For company? Perhaps. If the gentleman were so inclined."  
  
He wondered a bit at his sudden return of verbal-competence. Miraculously gone were his frayed-edge nerves. Coherent thoughts gathered obediently together and formed squadrons of coherent sentences. A somewhat unexpected recovery from the tongue-strangled fool he'd been with Linda only five minutes prior.   
  
But that was just because it was, well, Douglas. He knew Douglas. There was no heightened panic at the thought of ridicule or rejection, because Douglas already knew _ him_, knew every depressing, ridiculous thing about him, and—though a bit of good-natured ridicule was to be expected—seemed to like him anyway. Despite all rules of logic and universal balance, they were friends.  
  
"What did you have in mind?" Douglas asked, brow perfectly arched.  
  
Not a date. Just a friendly evening out amongst mates. That was all. Like a... a Chaps' Night, provided he could staunch any attempts on his uncouth scoundrel of First Officer's part to incite rounds of competitive farting or Whoops Johnnies.  
  
"Dinner?" Martin offered. Then added, "Your treat," which elicited a deep laugh from Douglas.   
  
"Is it indeed? Martin, m'lad, the only treat gratis you should prepare for is me  gifting you with my _ presence_."  
  
" _And_ your fattened wallet. I imagine it wasn't mere Monopoly money and coloured wedges at stake today."  
  
"My reputation and your imagination both serve us well. And I should share my ill-gotten gains with you because...?"  
  
"Because you wouldn't have ill-got them without me."  
  
"A bold statement. You weren't even there, as I recall. Some trouble with a broken tail lamp, was it not?"  
  
Martin was undeterred by the tease. "Yes. And if we hadn't been delayed, you'd have, what? Nicked that fifty quid off Herc whilst he was in the lav?"  
  
"You make a convoluted and thoroughly unconvincing point."  
  
Martin pushed off the side of the cabin he'd been leaning against and rubbed his stomach. "I'm feeling a bit peckish for something cheap and deep-fried." It was a trick he'd learnt from Douglas: Always act as if you've already won. Perhaps for once it could actually work for him.  
  
Douglas smiled as he slung his uniform jacket over one shoulder. There was the sweet mien of surrender in that smile, and maybe even the smallest hint of pride. Martin could taste that elusive sup of Victory like the soft tang of cherries between his teeth.   
  
"Come along then, my little stray," Douglas said. "I'll throw you a cheap, deep-fried bone. Just don't nip at my heels. These shoes are worth more than your van."  
  
Something swelled in Martin's chest, warm and light and tingly. He considered fighting it down for a moment, but gave in to the feeling perhaps a little more readily than he should've.  
  
"Arthur's self-knit woolly wombat shoes are worth more than my van."  
  
"You poor sod," Douglas chuckled. Martin trailed him out of the plane, feeling a mite like he was up flying through the clouds again. _Well done, Captain Crieff._ Chaps' Night: Cleared for takeoff.  
  
And as he watched the confident sway of Douglas's shoulders, feeling with great satisfaction his own follow suit, he airily thought to himself that Linda bleeding Presumesalot from... down Wrongingham way hadn't a single clue what she was on about.


	2. Ottery St. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a piano has been delivered and Martin still can't drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer and apologies for accidental Americanisms. And stupidly long delay for an update.

Part 2  
  
 _ \--- Ottery St. Mary --- _  
  
  
"You really didn't have to do this, Douglas."  
  
"That is a point on which we diverge."  
  
"I'm fine. Really. Perfectly capable—"  
  
"Martin, I am much more inclined to drive you home than  _ push _ you there on the back of the nearest wheeled instrument at hand."  
  
"Yes. About that—"  
  
"Martin—" Douglas cut in, sheepishness pulling at the corners of his mouth. Not that Martin was staring particularly at his mouth. Because he wasn't. Doing that. At all.  
  
"Thank you," Martin cut back, rather more quickly than necessary. "Again."  
  
That seemed to catch Douglas off guard. 

"Oh. Well." He cleared his throat, then stared hard at the road, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. Fascinating bit of asphalt at this junction, Martin was sure.  
  
"You were a great help today," he said, "and I do appreciate it. I mean, yes, as it turns out,  _ you _ lost the van keys and all—"  
  
"Still very much debatable!" Was Douglas blushing? Perhaps it was only leftover from all the physical exertion of the day. "Your sole piece of evidence is Arthur's honourably intentioned, I'm sure, but  highly suspect memory."  
  
Somehow Douglas's discomfort fed Martin's own confidence. 

"Lest we forget your own admission of guilt, slightly obscured though it was behind an outpouring of  truly  vulgar expletives." If that's how it was when the tables were turned, it wasn't any wonder Douglas had an endless reservoir of cheek and aplomb when Martin was feeling his most ridiculous.  
  
"Have your fun now," Douglas said. Or hissed, rather. "Because we both know it won't last." There was suddenly enough vinegar in his tone to drown a whole shop's worth of chips. "Remember, you still owe me for this."  
  
"Well," Martin started, a tad prematurely it turned out, as he hadn't quite figured what came next. He hadn't meant to anger Douglas. It was only a bit of mild teasing, and only what he deserved. If Martin could field the abuse Douglas punted at him on a near-daily basis, Douglas could certainly man-up and return the favour one piddling time. Not that he felt like voicing that challenge to Douglas anytime soon.  
  
"Yes..." Douglas, too, was apparently at a loss for words.  
  
They both stared ahead. Really, a bewitching tract of road about this particular stretch of Fitton. Workmanship of the highest quality. The Typhoon F2 of streets.  
  
The signal turned, and Douglas broke the silence. Non-sequiturially.  
  
"You're welcome."   
  
"What?"  
  
"You thanked me earlier. Kindly and perhaps undeservedly. It would be the height of rudeness to leave it unanswered." He smiled then, a real smile, so far as one could tell a genuine Richardson smile from a counterfeit, and it was amazing how it could gentle his whole face, all the way up to those piercing, keen eyes. How slyness could melt ever so smoothly into softness.   
  
It threw Martin all out of kilter; without preamble his thoughts drifted to the subject of  _ brown sauce_, of all random things.  
  
Which just wouldn't do. He closed his eyes, executed a sharp flick of the head, and it was gone. Put back in the cupboard, where it belonged. Someone else's cupboard. Not Martin's. What use had he for brown sauce, anyhow?   
  
Oh, what utter nonsense. He could only blame the day. It had definitely been one of those days.  
  
"I... alright." Martin fought for concentration. His mind was a blank field. A blank field suddenly populated by a misplaced otter, a pair of driving goggles strapped across its slick head, zooming about in a yellow vintage Austin Healey.   
  
Like he said. It'd been one of those days.  
  
"Martin?"   
  
_Flying piano!_ the otter chirped at him Shappily. It pointed a stubby, excited paw.  _ Brilliant! _  
  
_ "Martin?" _  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"I was just asking after your ankle. Are you alright? You look a bit... heatstroke-y."  
  
"What? Oh. No. No, I'm perfectly well. I was just thinking about..."  _ any topic other than the shape of your mouth. _ "Nothing, really."  
  
"Business as usual, then."  
  
"Yes, thank you for your concern," Martin grumbled.  
  
"And your ankle?"  
  
"Still sprained, yes. Not miraculously healed since this morning." He really hadn't the right to get so tetchy with Douglas. Not with him going out of his way to drive him home, and all.  
  
But still. Better to be tetchy than... soppy.   
  
That was the heart of it, if he was being completely honest with himself. He didn't want Douglas to smile at him with a bit of tenderness ( _yes you do, it's lovely_ ); he didn't want any brown sauce ( _yes you do, you want all the brown sauce_ ); he didn't want his heart to trip over itself like a newborn giraffe when Douglas looked his way or talked to him or was nearby or was far away but still on Martin's mind.  
  
It was all too much. This new... confusion. Things needed to go back to the way they were before. Before sodding Newcastle. Before their Definitely-Not-A-Date  né  This-Feels-A-Little-Bit-Like-A-Date-Though  né  This-Is-Not-A-Date  né  Chaps' Night.   
  
Which was why he'd decidedly  not asked Douglas to help him with the van job. Why he'd gone instead to Arthur ( _Arthur_ ). To pick up a piano (a _ piano_). And drive it 200 miles, in a van (a  _ van_). It'd been something of a godsend when Martin realised his day off was up, wall-chart approved, and Douglas had the next flight solo; but why he had relied on the Almighty to overcome the almightier powers of Martin Crieff's incredibly awful, incredibly reliable, incredibly disastrous bad luck was anybody's guess.  
  
Of course Douglas would offer. Would be the fly in the ointment, doing the bloody backstroke.  _ Oh, I'll help, Martin. I'll save your skin like I always do, Martin. I'll steal a plane for you. I'll push you a mile along the road on a piano. I'll sweat through my shirt and still look the dashing, debonair Sky God that women flock to and lesser men worship. _  
  
Typical.  
  
And Martin had only been too eager to accept. He'd felt such the fool when he'd opened his stupid mouth, gratitude spilling out of him in undignified waves.  _ Really_, Douglas? Oh,  _ would _ you, Douglas?  _ Quite _ sporting of you.  _ Quite  _ nice, quite quite  _ quite_. Sod it all, why hadn't he just waited until the bloody plane had landed to ask Arthur? He had the built-in time. Built-in Douglas-evading time. He could've caught Arthur on his mobile not half an hour later, but no. Classic Crieff. Fumbled the timing.  
  
It hadn't even been a terrible trip. Despite the missing keys and the hijacked plane and the three-man piano cavalcade they'd marched up Ottery's high street. Even with every mishap that, frankly, Martin should have counted on happening, it was still one of the better days he'd had in... well. There'd been laughs with Arthur, good conversation with Douglas, some cash at the end of the day to compensate for a bit of stress but technically not all that much work on his part.  
  
In the company of friends, on a nice cloudless day, Martin didn't have to feel like the Captain to feel... good. Not that he'd give up his stripes any time soon. Nothing felt better than flying.  
  
But his non-flying life had taken a pleasant if uninvited turn, starting with that dratted Chaps' Night. Douglas had taken them into town and they'd holed themselves up for the evening in the back corner of a warm pub, flush with Douglas's winnings. Baskets of fish and chips appeared and disappeared like magic. Martin hadn't licked his fingers with such satisfaction in quite some time. His stomach puffed out, obscenely overstuffed, a cornish hen drowning in wild rice. He'd have ordered that too, had it been on the menu, just to see how far he could stretch Douglas's tolerance for indentured mooching.   
  
A fair part of the evening had been devoted to the Adventures of Douglas and Hercules: The Flying Rogues of Air England. Martin didn't much mind, though, as each ridiculous lie had him chuckling into his pint. They moved on—somewhat reluctantly on Douglas's part—from those daring exploits of one-winged landings, royal intrigues, and sex-finessed espionage ( _"Not every bare-arsed Russian pointing a gun at you is KGB, Douglas, there's a good chance she just didn't like you." "No there isn't. Have you met me?" "To my very great disappointment."_ ) to a round of People with Evil Sounding Names Who Are Actually In Fact Very Much Evil. Martin had opened quickly with Adolf Hitler. Douglas lobbed back a guttural " _Rasssssputin_. "   
  
"Another of your Russian conquests, no doubt," Martin had joked, a stalling manoeuvre, before offering up: "Vlad Dracula!"  
  
"I'm not quite sure that fits the specs, Martin."  
  
"I'm quite sure it does. He  _ was _ a real person."  
  
"Yes, true."  
  
"A really evil person."  
  
"One does not earn the nickname 'The Impaler' by handing out baskets of kittens, after all," Douglas affably agreed.  
  
"With a name that couldn't be evil-er."  
  
"A-ha. But it's only evil-sounding because an evil monster was named after him. Not the other way round."  
  
"I don't see why that matters at all." Martin crossed his arms over his chest and absolutely did not pout. He muttered, "It sounds like a dragon and dragons aren't all that nice."  
  
"Fine. Alright. Point to you." Douglas tapped a finger against his lip. "Genghis Khan."  
  
They carried on with regular conversation—those stalwart topics of olde: Arthur's cooking, Carolyn's misering—until one would break in with a new name for the list, and often a new quibble. Both agreed that Robespierre counted, on the merits of his overall Frenchness, and that Pol Pot should go on a separate list for Evil People with Delightful Sounding Names.   
  
The round was won, however, when Martin triumphantly smacked a palm against the table and cackled out, " _Hester Macaulay!_ "  
  
"Well played!"  
  
"Yes, I thought so." Martin had straightened his back and preened in his chair. It wasn't often he won at anything. Wasn't often he felt especially clever. And it wasn't often for either of those things to happen in the presence of Douglas Richardson, much less both at the same time. Warmth had seeped into his chest and set his blood to simmer.  
  
He'd stretched that first pint long into the night, yet he'd still felt oddly... intoxicated. Too much food, too much laughing. An excess of endorphins—that's all it was.  
  
Bugger of a thing, endorphins. Making his eyesight a bit wobbly. The room a bit more dim, as if all the lights were closing in and all was in darkness but their warm, tiny corner; everything faded into a circle, smaller and smaller, until they were the only ones in the room, until Douglas's was the only voice in his ears, and so soft it was, and warm, like a sun-kissed blade of grass against his cheek.  
  
Endorphins, the only possible explanation for the bright thrill that'd danced up his spine when, as they wandered back to the Lexus, his shoulder had casually bumped against Douglas's.  
  
The only explanation for the rapid-fire thrum of his pulse as Douglas had followed him out the car, up the walkway at Parkside Terrace, and waited with him at the front door as Martin fumbled with his keys in the dark.  
  
"I—uh—" Martin had snapped his mouth shut, lest he do something ridiculous like invite Douglas in for coffee.   
  
"You know, loathe as I am to admit it," Douglas said, in a voice altogether too smooth, "but you do, on rare occasion, make for good company, Captain."  
  
Martin unclamped his mouth to say something clever, or biting, or even appreciative, but all that he could manage was a trembling, "Oh?" His fingers slipped on the keys—damned things—and they clattered to the ground.  
  
He'd knelt for them. So had Douglas, who snatched them up first. And when they rose they were somehow closer than before. Douglas's fingers pressed warm against Martin's open palm as he handed the keys over. It couldn't have been that they rested against his skin a second longer than was strictly necessary. That they traced a short path along his wrist before reluctantly pulling back. Surely it was only Martin's imagination.  
  
He swallowed, his throat suddenly parched, and looked up at Douglas, whose face was far closer than it had any right to be. A trick of the shadows.   
  
It couldn't have been...  
  
Oh God.  
  
 _Oh God_.  
  
It was... God help him. It was a  _ moment_. One of those terribly cliched moments from a romantic film, all darkened eyes and kept breaths and the quick swipe of a tongue to wet lips.  
  
And though  _ certain _ people liked to claim Martin wouldn't know 'a  _ moment_' if it introduced itself with a firm handshake and two business cards, he darn well had experience enough to recognise one under a darkened portico when he saw it, thank you very much.  
  
 _ Certain _ people could darn well stop their mouths from twitching up at the corners and their eyes from crinkling in such a knowing—and fetching—way while they were at it, too.  
  
Martin's heart tripped over itself, clumsy old beast.  
  
"Douglas." Martin leant closer.  
  
"Yes." Douglas leant closer too.  
  
"Keep your dick in your pants!" That was Pete's contribution to the  _ moment_, as he barrelled out the door with one arm in his coat and the other holding his mobile to his ear. "Oi, Martin, didn't see you there. 'Scuse-a."  
  
Martin took a hasty step back to let him pass. Pete cast a sidelong glance at him, then at Douglas, then back round to Martin for good measure.  
  
"Ah," he said in a tone that was far too knowing for anything the situation actually merited. Martin hadn't been about to—  
  
Certainly Pete hadn't interrupted—  
  
Nothing untoward, or, or, or—  
  
Absolutely  _ nothing _ of the sort—  
  
Pete slapped Martin twice on the shoulder as he passed and said, "Sorry mate," in an embarrassingly loud stage whisper before hopping down the steps and swaggering into the night.   
  
"One of your charming housemates, no doubt?" If Douglas's voice was strained, he was doing an admirable job of hiding it.  
  
"Some doubt," Martin said hollowly. He stared at the now-empty patch of darkness that had swallowed Pete's retreating figure. "On the charming front."  
  
A sliver of light shone out onto the pavement; the door still hung open. Martin could feel his escape like a sharp tug on the shoulders and huffed out a sigh of relief.  
  
"I'll just—" He retreated quickly inside and managed to squeak out almost all of  " _Goodnight, Douglas!_ "  before the door slammed shut behind him. He'd rushed up to his attic room as fast as his legs would move and flopped face first onto the bed. Which had stung, and he instantly regretted. An ignoble end to an innocent evening gone confusingly awry, and one which ensured he'd never be able to look Pete—nor Douglas—in the eye again.  
  
Which made for an awkward and mostly silent ride from the airfield back to Martin's house, following the day's road-slash-air trip adventure, even if the awkwardness was only one-sided. Lord only knew what Douglas thought of their Definitely-Not-A-Date-So-Shove-Your-Apologies-Pete-It's-Not-What-It-Looked-Like-Piss-Off-Already. Probably wasn't even a blip on his radar.  
  
It'd been easy enough to forget it all in Devon, with a job to get done and an Arthur to mind, but back in the Lexus, on an arrow's path to the scene of the crime? A far greater feat than the likes of Martin Crieff could manage.  
  
And Douglas, cool-as-a-scoop-of-cucumber-sorbet Douglas, with his quips and his sarcasm and his easy, charming laugh, probably felt not the slightest bit of discomfort, because, of course, there was nothing to feel uncomfortable about. The entirety of the  _ moment _ had been naught but a construct of Martin's endorphins-induced lunacy. Better that way, to keep the disaster contained, if Martin was the only witness to it in the first place. (Witness  _ and _ perpetrator.)  
  
Though actually... Douglas  _ had _ acted a bit strangely from the start... Offering his help. Conceding his gaffe. Surrendering an honest smile.  
  
"Here we are, then," Douglas said. The car pulled to a stop. His voice was light. "Chez du Cref. Casa Crefo. Das Haus der Criefbaden—"  
  
"Yes, thank you Douglas. That's very... lingual of you." Martin cleared the uncomfortable lump from his throat.   
  
"Shall I walk you up?"  
  
"What? No! I mean—I mean. Why?" Someone set a sparkler off under his ribs.  
  
Douglas stared at him in silence, while Douglas's left eyebrow let him know quite clearly that he was acting an absolute prat. The right eyebrow took pity on him, though, and, with an assist from Douglas's inclined neck, indicated his still-wrapped ankle. But added in an unspoken  'idiot' just to be sure it wasn't growing soft in its old age.  
  
"Oh!" Martin said. "Oh yes. I... I forgot. Yes. Thank you. That would be very nice of you, Douglas. Thank you." He cringed at the thinness of his own voice.  
  
"Yes, you said that already."  
  
"Oh." He'd said that already, too. He and the English language weren't on the friendliest terms at the moment. He decided to add the reassuring grip of Douglas's arm around his lower back as he helped him to the door and the salt-sweat smell of Douglas's neck—so distractingly close with Martin's arm slung behind it—to the list of his own personal Axis of Evil.  
  
The universe hated him. But that wasn't news.  
  
He was injured and sun-stroked and he refused to be held accountable for either thought or action at this point.   
  
It was a relatively quick progression up the stairs to Martin's room. So quick that he didn't have the time to start panicking about Douglas seeing his small—but perfectly adequate!—living space. It was clean, in a fashion; there wasn't much to dirty it except dust.  
  
But still. It was  his space. Other people didn't enter. It just... wasn't done.   
  
No, it wasn't done, that is until Douglas deposited him a little too casually against the wall by the door and, with his hands on his hips, turned to take in a panoramic view of the room. It lay open, giving a nice illusion of spaciousness. A small desk and chair were sat under the circular window in the north-facing wall. Planted atop, mottled with a layer of dust, was the chunky RiscPC he'd found at a school sale and had, with money scrounged from night shifts and odd jobs, paid a tech to rig it compatible with his flight simulator software.   
  
His flight manuals cluttered a charity shop bookshelf in the corner. It wasn't too bad; painted black and sturdy on all sides, attractively shaped with bevelled corners, it hadn't anything to be abashed about. The mini-fridge hummed underneath a set of waist-high shelves on the far wall to their right, next to it the small, free-standing wardrobe with the wobbly door that wouldn't latch closed, storing some clothes and tins of beans and bread.  
  
It wasn't much, but it was still  _ his _ space, that he'd cobbled and crafted together and earned through the work of his own hands; and, stiffening his back, he refused to be ashamed of it.  
  
"It's a little..." Douglas coughed, perhaps to hide the embarrassment he felt for his captain. "Cozy."  
  
"Yes. Well." His hackles stirred. "It'll do to keep out the rain."  
  
Douglas peered at the ceiling. "Will it?"  
  
Martin flushed, feeling defensive on the room's behalf. It was an entirely respectable room. It was enough. He patted his palm against the wall in a conciliatory gesture—a silent apology for the rudeness of this intruder. The same sort of protective feeling rushed through his blood when some snobbish passenger or surly engineer made a thoughtless, disparaging remark about G-ERTI.  
  
These were  _ his _ places,  _ his _ things, and they were wonderful in their own ways and other people had no right to expect them to be anything other than what they were meant to be.  
  
"It's fine." Martin pushed himself off the wall, which was actually a terrible idea, since he had no balance and one good leg. He reached out and clasped Douglas's shoulder—perhaps a little more harshly than was absolutely necessary—and regained his footing.  
  
"Steady on, Martin."  
  
"Help me to the—" He slung his arm back round Douglas's neck and glanced up at him. Their faces were very close, and the rest of the sentence dried up in Martin's throat.  
  
A day's growth of beard shaded Douglas's face. When was it Douglas had last been at home, had taken time to rest and bathe and shave? What would it feel like to have that five o'clock stubble scrape against his cheek, the tip of his nose, across his lips?  
  
No. No. _What?_ Absolutely _no_. Martin pushed himself quickly off Douglas and steadied an arm against the wall instead. Douglas wasn't the only one who needed a rest; Martin's brain had clearly gone on holiday.   
  
Water. He needed water.   
  
"Lovely," Douglas said, dragging a hand down his cheek. "Make mine a double."  
  
Oh. He must've spoken aloud.  
  
"Actually." Douglas peered down at Martin's wrappings. "Perhaps I should do the honours."  
  
Martin frowned. A rank of hostly duties formed along his spine and compelled him to maintain the role of provider in his own space.   
  
"No, it's fine." He tried a tentative hop and found that he could move himself along rather well without assistance, his braced arm progressing stiffly along the wall.  
  
And if he didn't swipe Douglas's warm hand away from the small of his back, it was only because Douglas had the good manners to keep quiet and allow Martin this one dignity. So he hobbled, but he hobbled like a proper Englishman, stiff upper lip and no complaints.   
  
He didn't dare look at Douglas, because he'd rather not see whatever superior, stupid smirk was on his infuriatingly smug, handsome face. No, strike that. Just smug. He only meant smug.  _ Oh, there's the fridge, thank goodness.  
_  
Water bottle triumphantly in hand, ready to present it to his smirky, horrid co-pilot, Martin rose from his precarious crouch and hopped forward. "Ta-da— _aaaaaaaah!_ "  
  
His foot slammed against wood, his trouser cuff caught—that damned cabinet door that wouldn't stick—and the surprise was enough to knock him off his equilibrium. His shoulders hurtled forward, his arms windmilled almost comically in front of him as he toppled.  _ Oh, hello, floor. How nice to see you. Let me introduce you to my face—  
_  
"I swear, Martin. You need a minder." Douglas's arm was round his waist again, keeping him from his immediate appointment with solid wood.  
  
"Mrrppphh," Martin replied against Douglas's chest. Just to prove he wasn't a  complete failure of human being, he slapped the successfully retrieved water bottle into Douglas's open palm then worked on regaining his balance on his own, thank you very much.  
  
He didn't need a minder. He didn't need Douglas's help to get up. He didn't need Douglas's arm gripped round him like he was some swooning damsel. He pushed his closed fists against Douglas's bulk but that only managed to tighten the hold Douglas had around him.  
  
"Martin," Douglas said, breath warm against Martin's cheek. He straightened, righting Martin along the way. "You little thief."  
  
Confusion struck the middle of Martin's forehead like a dart, eliciting the oh-so-eloquent response: "Huh-whuh?" He was finally able to brace himself on the low shelf he used as a counter. Douglas released him and he wobbled for a moment before steadying.  
  
Douglas squinted at the bottle in his hand. "This is Carolyn's water."  
  
"No it isn't."  
  
"You stole this."  
  
"I most certainly did not."  
  
"Tell me, then. Where exactly did you find an alternate supply of—" He made a show of reading the incriminating label again. "—My Water Now?"  
  
"Yes, okay! It's MJN's water."  
  
"That you stole."  
  
"That I  _ borrowed_."  
  
"Carolyn might take offence with your method of returning it once used." He pursed his lips in mock-thought.  
  
" _Douglas_."  
  
"Look, I'm not saying it's a bad thing. In fact, I rather approve." Douglas uncapped the bottle and took a dainty sip. "Nice to see you dirty that nose of yours after it's spent so much time up in the air."  
  
"The career criminal  would approve," Martin huffed.  
  
Douglas laid a hand over his own heart. "You wound me ever so."  
  
"Always on the tightest of budgets, the verge of going under, and Carolyn has custom labels put on the sodding water."  
  
"A dratted inconvenience for any would-be water-bandits."  
  
"I've half a mind to... to... tell her... that."  
  
"The other half must be where all the smarts are."   
  
Martin's withering glare was met with an airy shrug and another dainty sip.  
  
"You're hilarious," Martin said. "Really. Drink your water. Have your fun. Don't mind me, hobbling to and fro. Abuse the invalid, ha ha ha, it's all fun and games."   
  
The exaggerated roll of Douglas's eyes was no less than Martin's dramatics deserved, but it still rankled.  
  
"Shall I carry you across the room instead, my liege?" He proffered his arms.  
  
Martin swallowed. He could feel his cheeks redden with a sudden intensity. The only thing across the room was his bed, tucked in the corner out of the way. The sheets were rumpled and askew. He hadn't the chance to make it that morning before his accident. It looked altogether... libertine, shameless in its sloppiness. Not that it had any reason to, but it was putting up a fairly passable illusion of lewdness.  
  
 _ Crieff, you silly prig. Only  _ you _ would worry about the nonexistent come-hither advances of an unmade bed.  
_  
Douglas arched a brow at his continued silence.  
  
"I—" It was a start. Now for a middle and an end... "I... think you need a shower."  
  
 _ Oh. Well done. Bravo. Pillock.  
_  
Douglas sniffed under his arm and  _ dear God _ why did that make Martin's stomach tighten the way it did?  
  
"I don't have one here," he blurted.  _ Idiot_. Clearly Douglas had seen there wasn't a shower hiding behind the drapes. A trying task, that, seeing as how there weren't any drapes.  
  
"No, no," Douglas said. "By all means. If you want to waste your pilfered water on a well-earned sponge bath for your faithful valet, who am I to stop you? I am, as we are both well aware, still owed a massive favour."  
  
Martin burst into gut-busting laughter. After all, there wasn't anything else to do.   
  
"Next time, then." Douglas sighed, put upon, and exited the room with a salute.  
  
Well.   
  
One of those days, indeed.


End file.
